The guests arrived all at once and Julia felt like an outsider. The boys strolled easily into the kitchen, kissed her mother, greeting her by her first name, and came out again holding the glasses she’d handed them. Standing next to her mother, Julia felt invisible.
When Anna, radiant in a turquoise print dress, switched on the new record player and Pablo unpacked his collection of LPs of the latest hits by Almendra, Sui Generis, and Led Zeppelin, Julia sought refuge in the small garden at the front of the house. She was too eager to dance, too afraid of not being asked, and even more afraid of being asked and not knowing what to do.
Through the wide-open door Julia watched the twins spinning all the girls around and Anna changing partners each time a new song came on, under Pablo’s amused gaze. None of the boys was paying any attention to Julia. She was almost ashamed and berated herself for having dressed like a child, in a long blue paisley-print cotton dress with a smocked top that flattened her breasts.
A young man with rumpled hair and a blasé air came out, glass in hand, and sat down at her side, so clumsily that for a moment she thought he would spill his drink over her. Finally he turned around and gave her a beaming smile. Julia nearly walked away, horrified at the thought that he might be motivated by pity. But she found him so unattractive, with his pockmarked skin and huge lips, that she felt as if their roles had been reversed and allowed herself to be pleasant.
He held out the glass to her. “An improvement on what your mother’s dishing out,” he said.
Julia raised one eyebrow, half-offended, half-amused.
“It’s Coca-Cola . . . with a dash of rum!” he went on.
“It’s not really my thing,” Julia retorted.
“You’re mistaken. Not only does it taste good, it’ll make you friendlier. It’s Cuban rum, you know. If you want to dance with me you’ll have to drink some, like any self-respecting young revolutionary.”
“I don’t want to dance with you.” As if to justify her lack of humor, she added: “I don’t even know who you are.”
He jumped up, gave a bow, and, after ceremoniously kissing her hand, said, “My name is Theodoro d’Uccello—Theo to friends—and I am henceforth eternally at your service.”
Julia couldn’t help cracking up. Theo had just won the first round.
He pulled Julia into the living room and they began to dance, roaring with laughter, heedless of the other couples they kept bumping into. Julia’s mother wasn’t exactly pleased with her daughter’s behavior. In the end she got her husband to come in and restore order. Julia’s father made a conspicuous entrance into the living room. The young guests looked on apprehensively, stepping back to let him pass. Grim faced, he walked slowly toward the boy who had his younger daughter mesmerized.
“I’m going to have to put my mask on,” Theo whispered, winking at Julia, as the head of the household approached.
Julia watched him, alert for the slightest faux pas. But Theo surprised her. He had morphed seamlessly into an adult: her father’s equal. He apologized for his childish behavior, then proceeded to take the lead in the conversation, proving to be remarkably intelligent. He spoke about politics, happy to discuss the latest events in national life. He openly declared that he was a Peronist and was confident the general would make a triumphant return, because the military would eventually have to give in to pressure from the people. Julia’s father, who made no secret of his support for the old leader, couldn’t have been more pleased with Theo’s politics.
Everyone knew Perón would soon be visiting Argentina for the first time since being forced into exile. But hardly anyone, not even his most loyal supporters, dared to envisage a general election that would see his definitive return to the presidency, as Theo maintained. And to tell the truth, Julia couldn’t have cared less.
She went back outside and sat down, leaning against the garden railing. Being with the others had exhausted her and she needed to get away. She stared down the deserted, ill-lit street. Though the sidewalks were fairly narrow, space had been left to plant trees. Now they had to fight against the invasion of electricity poles and streetlights, half of which didn’t work. The large, faded houses, the slender windows decorated with elegant wrought-iron balconies, and the crenellated roofs bore witness to a more glorious past. There was something fragile about it all that appealed to her.
The party began to wind down, and one by one the young people took their leave. The house fell silent and Theo, one of the last to leave, kept his mask on to the end. He bade Julia a polite good night and walked off. He could be so respectable! She followed him with her gaze until he had turned the corner.
—
She shakes her head as she does her hair, as if to chase away these memories, then combs it into place with her fingers. He brings his mask out to hide something, as a last resort when he is feeling trapped. Julia pretends she hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t want to put him on his guard. Yes, she wants to go out. She is set on it now. She insists, as if acting on a whim. But she’s shaken.
They take the car, avoiding each other’s gaze, and scour the streets in search of some action. Julia affects a cheerful, casual air. But they’re driving through a ghost town: all the bars are closed. They scour the streets near the station, venture down to the marina, around the shopping mall. Nothing. They are almost secretly relieved. On the way back home, they are suddenly blinded by some roadside neon signs just behind the heliport. It’s a biker bar. And it’s packed. Through the fogged-up windows they can make out a dance floor and a pool table. A crooner’s baritone punctures the night through a swinging door held open by a couple.
They park the car and hesitate. There are some black girls singing in front of a huge karaoke screen. Julia rouses herself and drags Theo inside. The girls’ crystal-clear voices are at odds with the heavy bodies they shake at a devilish pace while the men slouching at the bar ignore them. Theo doesn’t pay them any attention either, at least no more than he does Julia. He seems distracted.
He goes to the bar to order a couple of beers, shunning all contact, and returns, lost in thought. Julia makes a fresh attempt at conversation. “It would do us good to go on a motorcycle ride one weekend.”
Theo’s gaze returns to her for an instant.
“We could tour the Berkshires,” she suggests.
It will be beautiful there now, at the tail end of summer, and Julia knows Theo likes riding on mountain roads. Labor Day is coming up; it would be the ideal time to make the most of a long weekend.
Theo puts his glass down. He takes a second too long to answer.
“Yes, we could take a couple of days and leave Friday,” he admits. “But I’ll have to be back Monday morning to hold down the fort.”
Julia doesn’t want to ask any more questions. Hold down the fort on Labor Day, what a great alibi. Like the excuse he invented this summer not to go to New Zealand to visit their son. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Theo claimed the trip had been planned without consulting him, and there was no way he could leave the office. Julia went anyway, outraged by his dishonesty and because Ulysses had scheduled his vacation for the dates they’d planned. Besides, she wanted to meet her son’s fiancée.
Her trip hasn’t made things any better. Theo has been irritable since she got back and has gotten into the habit of making hurtful remarks. If he’s run out of gas, it’s because Julia doesn’t contribute to the household expenses. If he can’t find the remote for their new TV, it’s because Julia isn’t organized. If Julia walks into their bedroom unexpectedly, it’s because she’s spying on him. He’s moved his office to the laundry room so Julia won’t disturb him.
But that’s not all. In spite of herself, Julia can’t help keeping count of his new eccentricities: a sudden enthusiasm for heavy metal, a new interest in electronic games, and his latest craze, egg whites. For some reason Julia connects all of this to the story of a staff confere
nce that Theo attended recently. He came back from it all excited. He told her about a colleague, a young Korean, whom he’d hit it off with. Then he told her he’d be back from work late sometimes because he planned on going to the gym with his new friend.
Funny, that’s stuck like a fishbone.
Theo has set two beers down on the table.
“By the way, thanks for the lunch, honey. The guys at the gym were green with envy. We were all starving after the workout.”
He sits down close to her and kisses her passionately on the mouth. All of Julia’s wild imaginings evaporate in an instant. Maybe it’s just a fit of jealousy, an aftereffect of my trance. The thought takes her by surprise. She isn’t tired; why make this connection? Mechanically she replays the images of the young Asian woman putting on makeup in the bathroom, the bed, the clothes on the chair. Theo puts his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. They get up, hand in hand, and dance between the pool tables. Julia thinks back to her Rothko painting and feels guilty for allowing doubt to creep in.
In bed later that night, Theo feels her moving and holds her close. Julia prays they’ll stay this way always, pressed close together. A plane flies over the house. Its drone is soothing. She wouldn’t want to be anyplace else but in his arms.
She wakes at dawn. Theo is already in the shower. She pulls on her dressing gown and goes downstairs to make him some lunch to take to the office. She opens the bag he uses to transport his gym clothes and lunch box. Yesterday’s shorts and T-shirt are impeccably folded, the lunch intact, untouched.
Julia’s heart freezes. Yesterday Theo described his gym workout to her in detail. He even mentioned he had heated up his lunch in the office microwave. Julia stops dead, staring at Theo’s things. My God . . . what if there’s someone else, and he meant her to find these things so she’d guess? Has he done it on purpose?
Julia doesn’t hesitate for a second. She races up the stairs, pulls on a gray cotton shirt and a tracksuit, knocks on the bathroom door, and, taking quick, short breaths so her voice won’t betray her emotion, says, “I’m going for a run. I’ve left your breakfast on the table.”
She rushes back downstairs. She goes out by the main door and skirts the house to where Theo’s car is parked on the private access road. She opens the door, taking care not to set off the alarm, climbs into the backseat, lifts the lever that locks the seat back, and folds the seat forward to access the trunk. She crawls inside, pulls the seat back into place, and freezes in her hiding place, panting.
Curled up in a ball in the darkness, her heart thudding and her palms sweating, she feels like throwing up. It isn’t wanting to know the truth that is making her feel sick. It’s finding herself once again shut up in the trunk of a car.
6.
THE EZEIZA MASSACRE
Austral Winter
1973
Julia was fifteen. She’d been in love with him for a few months now. Her grandmother had warned her: women of the lineage were never happy in love. But Julia refused to listen. She would be the exception.
The callow youth who had approached her at her parents’ home had become a man. He had enrolled in the School of Sciences at the University of Buenos Aires. He wanted to become a computer scientist. He’d been good at math in school and had developed an interest in systems programming—a new field that had managed to survive the flight into exile of Argentina’s finest minds following the Noche de los Bastones Largos.*
Theo would have liked to work with Clementina, the pride of the faculty. It was the first computer programmed entirely in Argentina—a bulky piece of equipment occupying an entire room. Unfortunately Clementina had just been dismantled on the pretext that a new machine was going to be put into service. Theo was hoping to be part of the new team. His exam results were excellent, and his professors considered him a particularly brilliant student.
Theo was ambitious. He read almost everything he could get his hands on. He had an opinion on every subject under the sun, because even when his knowledge of something was superficial, he could support it with convincing remarks. Mama Fina said he had “presence.” He wasn’t handsome by any means, but he had the appeal of young people who enjoy other people’s company. His gift for repartee soon made him the center of any conversation; he could be self-deprecating and make people laugh. He often said he’d learned to play the clown to keep Julia’s heart, and she knew it was true.
But above all—and this was what made him irresistible to Julia—Theo made it a point of honor to nurture his inner child. He was up for any game, curious about anything new, open to any craziness. Julia felt like she’d been caught up in a whirlwind. It was her turn to keep Anna up at night with her tales of Theo.
Theo was very close to his brother, Gabriel, who was five years his elder. His admiration for Gabriel knew no bounds. They had both graduated from the Colegio Nacional de Buenos Aires. It was there that Gabriel had made friends with Carlos Gustavo Ramus, a classmate who would later meet a tragic fate. In 1964, at just seventeen, Ramus had become the leader of the Catholic students’ organization in Buenos Aires. At twenty-three he had helped to launch a revolutionary movement opposed to the military dictatorship: the Montoneros, named after the guerrillas who had fought against Spanish rule in the nineteenth century. He was killed a few months later during a confrontation with police. It was through Ramus that Gabriel, aged barely eighteen, had become an activist within the Catholic Student Youth, the JEC. It was also through Ramus that Gabriel had made the acquaintance of the young priest Carlos Mugica, the movement’s spiritual adviser.
Gabriel had gotten involved in politics in 1966 while studying for his entrance exams to the faculty of medicine. Theo assumed that his involvement in politics simply consisted of a few meetings with friends. Gabriel’s circle was made up of young nationalists, most of them conservative and Catholic, who were also attracted, paradoxically enough, to the ideas of Che Guevara and Mao Zedong. They viewed Father Mugica as a mentor because he talked about social justice and worked on the ground in the villas miserias of Buenos Aires. He had taken his young followers there several times on vaccination campaigns and similar missions. The brush with poverty had put some of them off but encouraged the hardier ones to get more involved. Hence why young people from the Mataderos neighborhood, where the d’Uccello brothers lived, read Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Yves Congar, and René Laurentin before they read Marx’s Capital.
Young Theo’s room reflected the influence of his older brother. Instead of the posters of Ursula Andress that held pride of place in his friends’ bedrooms, his room was decked out with photographs of Che Guevara and Perón in full dress uniform. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest that his heroes embodied contradictory ideals. At the foot of his bed lay piles of Christianity and Revolution salvaged after they’d been read from cover to cover by his brother’s political circle. One of the shelves behind the door held a dusty copy of a book that had once been required reading in school: La Razón de mi vida, with a picture of Evita Perón on the cover. The book had recently been banned by the military junta.
Theo was an eager participant in the meetings Gabriel organized at their house, especially when Father Mugica was present. The young priest argued that the temptation of armed struggle was a trap and that only democratic action could break the military’s stranglehold. Although he admired the success of the Cuban experience, he refused to justify revolutionary violence. He liked to remind them of the biblical reference to turning swords into plowshares, although that hadn’t stopped him from clashing with Cardinal Caggiano, the archbishop of Buenos Aires and the head of the Argentine church, who openly supported the military dictatorship.
Gabriel had briefly nursed the idea of entering the seminary. He had been tempted to follow in Mugica’s footsteps and become involved in the antiestablishment Movement of Priests for the Third World, an organization of young Argentine clerics that had become extremely p
opular because of its outspoken criticism of the abuses of the military junta.
Perhaps that was why Gabriel hadn’t joined his friend Ramus when the Montoneros formed their first armed unit in the early 1970s. Gabriel believed subversion would exacerbate the country’s social malaise, not remedy it. Nor did he approve of Operation Pindapoy, the kidnapping of General Pedro Eugenio Aramburu. The former head of the military junta had been hauled before a people’s court. Charged with multiple crimes, particularly that of stealing Evita Perón’s body, he had been killed by a bullet to the head. The Montoneros had published a statement declaring that they would give up his body only in exchange for Evita’s remains.
This was when Theo, who had just turned seventeen, decided to become a Montonero, against the advice of his older brother and despite Father Mugica’s warnings. His decision came just a few weeks before the news that Aramburu’s body had been found by the army in a hacienda owned by Ramus’s parents. Their property, La Celma, was situated in Buenos Aires district. Gabriel knew the place and had been there on a number of occasions.
Theo asked Gabriel to put him in contact with Ramus. He was convinced his brother knew where Ramus was hiding, and he wanted to join the organization right away. Gabriel refused outright. Whether it was because he condemned the Montoneros’ act or because he wanted to protect Theo, Gabriel became angry with his brother and retreated into an obstinate silence. Theo was furious at him.
The discord between the d’Uccello brothers lasted until the tragic events of the spring. On September 7, 1970, Carlos Gustavo Ramus died as he was pulling the pin out of a grenade during a confrontation with police in a pizzeria in the center of Buenos Aires. The leader of the Montoneros, Fernando Luis Abal Medina, was also gunned down in the shoot-out.
The Blue Line Page 4